Before his captors allowed him off the ship, he had already been greeted with the stench of stale air. Even aboard the wooden vessel where the dim lights layered more shadows along the windowless interior, he could imagine the mossy terrain waiting for him, coated with thick slime along moldy stone. It was an imagery that summed up the current situation in his life. At the age of twenty-three, he had silken locks of bright blonde, bearing a dollish complexion in the damp atmosphere. The empty gaze of his and the other slaves were not unlike the gloominess of the area around him.

He had not been permitted to see his friends in the two years it took to train him upon the surface, until they were sure that under no circumstances, that he would attempt to run away. He'd been isolated, and it seemed to show on his features, too pale, as he stepped on to the shores of the underdark, pressing past the other nameless imprisoned who had hardly spoken a word the entire trip. They had been told they were precious cargo, different in that they were higher quality slaves, not particularly in attitude but in lineage and looks. There was a market for all sorts of slaves out there as he was always keenly aware of. He stepped down upon a rock with cheap boots (his old ones were confiscated and sold) and used his heel to guide the poor stone to the front so that he could kick it along the path as he walked. With the grace of a wolf being let out of the cage for the first time, he casually made his way over, dragging whisps of dust as the gravity was stirred with every step. The dust faded when the stone stopped at the feet of a metallic boot barely grazing it with a faded trail and skidding to a standstill. In front of the gate, were silver armored figures, standing propped upright on both sides.

The peacekeeper soldiers barely spared a glance, stuck as if they were a mere painting or piece of furniture on guard. There was no recognition of the collar that was around his neck by them, clasped on for life, as a reminder of the failure of all that he had become, or the price that he himself had yet to pay. He was unsure, however, if the attitude of dignity that he lit inside could ever be snuffed out properly and it showed in the condescending glare that he gave on his way in. When the gate shut behind him, the metallic creak sounded all of a sudden, wailing out in the dead air, sealing his fate. He did not turn away from his new prison, steps steady, undeterred and laced with coolness, as the City of the Underdark uncloaked itself before him.

He had not been sure what to expect, as he really had not heard anything about the place itself but the people within it. He most likely expected to walk in on slaves being lead around on leash, a roguish, uncouth atmosphere where there were weird, inhumane customs. Most of all, he expected male slaves like him to be treated like complete dirt. Interestingly enough, instead, he was met with a ghost town. Of all the things he had been expecting, emptiness was not one of them.

The streets, he remembered, were void of people for the most part, always empty, and he felt that way until he reached the area of the hub. Inside, he heard a strange language that he'd never uttered before, and finally figured out after a few moments of pacing the area that some voices were behind a particular wall. It seemed, that whenever people spoke, in that strange tongue that was very common amongst them, they were speaking somewhere behind that wall, or another. At one point, he ended up standing nearby, directly on the other side of the wall, to see if they would say anything to him. He still had his old habit of lurking in the background about, but quickly tired of doing this and sat down on a table for the longest time, just letting the words bounce off his head, in one ear and out the other.

When he had been approached, he would continue not to understand and often times, he'd simply stare blankly at them before they walked away. At the time, he simply refused to speak, not particularly out of his usual rudeness, but because that was who he was. He also understood that opening his mouth might have lead to worse consequences because he was too accustomed to speaking his mind. Days drifted like this. He decided, eventually, to explore the other areas, instead of wandering the hub aimlessly. He was a bit worried that he would get lost, but he had acquired enough curiosity by then to override his usual impulses not to stray. Besides that, he really had no idea where he'd go. He thought with a seeping bitterness in his heart, as he entered into yet another area, that he was no longer able to have a place to return to. Even though the life back home had been a nightmare, it had offered a sense of security that tormented and caused mixed feelings inside him.

While thinking deeply on this matter, he paused as he literally walked into a sign board, and caught sight of a hanging scrap of paper, one of the many posted on the board. The writing was neat, clear and concise. He ran his fingers over the text, and wondered how long it had been there, for the page still seemed to look new to him. First, he noticed the title, and it caused him to be taken aback.

To all humans …

Those three words were honestly all he saw, for the most part. It seemed, that someone was answering the question of what he was to do.

Report to the sharps if you are seeking work.

Admittedly, the notice said more, and had a lot more detail, but the gist of the words seemed to give him a sense of purpose. As well, something about the notice stood out, in that it had a clear, commanding tone.

The name, in this notice, was signed at the bottom, scrawled out and he memorized it. Before he knew what he was doing, he smiled, a bittersweet look of sadness that fell across his face.

"Vance Gravelle, huh?" he thought to himself. "It'd be nice...to be a slave to someone like that."

He turned away from the notice afterwards, and shut his eyes, a feeling of shame falling over him. The rainless sky simply glared down at him just then. It was as if he was just starting to accept his new life. He would not admit it, that it was soon to be a hopeless one, that perhaps he'd just gotten exactly what he deserved. There was no hope for him, no chance of kindness here, he told himself. Things like that simply didn't happen to him. Things weren't given to him, and he usually had to work his way up to claw through it, painfully, fingers grasping at the shadows of those who were always above him. It was what his father had taught him, and it had sealed his fate the moment he had been born, just with the disposition of having looked like his mother. Of course, he was a nobleman's son. He had gifts, he had empty friends, he had integrated himself in a tight knit group and attempted to work in the shadows. He had ambition, and all that lead him to chains, as if the very fates that would allow him to succeed ripped it from his very hands the more he wanted it.

So reporting for work? Of course that was exactly what he would do. Living in the shadows. Biding his time. Always left wanting more.

As he set off to return to the hub, he felt pain, but he also felt considerably more determined.

The hub was an area that was hard to explain. All Hart could remember was that it simply looked like the bottom half of an inner castle, built up from rocks and metal bars. He had become accustomed to the dungeon-like atmosphere, and actually preferred it to the pristine streets of the Surface. He pushed open a wooden door and entered, almost walking past someone standing in the hall and thought better of it. For once, there was a group of individuals standing about, directly in his path, and he finally spoke, figuring now that he had a sense of purpose, that he may as well get started.

Turning to face them all, he did not wait for them to address him first.

"I am looking for the leader of the Sharps," he stated.

There was a distinct pause in the group. Apparently, this got the attention of everyone in the room. Soon, that odd tongue started and murmurs happened, that which he did not focus too much on.

"That would be me." The first one to speak to him in a language he understood, and his gaze snapped over to the man. His eyes widened, and narrowed for a second, as he had not been expecting the other to be around, but his expression soon faded back into it's usual bored look, not because he was actually reflecting what he felt when he looked as he did. He masked his expression as soon as it appeared, and continued in a calm and even tone.

"I was looking at a message board, and it informed me that I was to report in for work."

The man examined him, and he could not help but focus in on his features. Pale skin, blonde hair, but most importantly, the look of inquisitive knowledge. His entire senses were put on alert, as he knew then, that he was standing in front of a person of authority.

"What skills do you have to offer?"

"I'm a priest," he stated. "A healer, to be exact."

"Of the divine, or the Arcane..?"

"More on the divine side…"

"A healer, huh?" said the man with a faint smile. "We could always use more of those. What religion do you follow?"

"Loviatar."

It was then that they stared into his eyes. The moment was not magical. It was, however, tension-filled. He watched the man calmly, and inside, he was trying to read them. If eyes were the window to the soul, however, this one was too complex, for while they had an amiable enough expression, something about the way they stood reminded him of someone hunting. He too, seemed to size the other up, without words, heavily guarded in expression as was his usual poker face.

"Interesting…" said Vance Gravelle, and without another word to him, he walked off, seeming to revert to the strange language. He gave directions to the crowd, that which Hart could not understand, and left the slave man as swiftly as he had seemed to appear. Hart let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding, the anticipation slowly seeping out of him as he realized in a mere three seconds how impressed he'd actually been with the man.

This is the one… he thought to himself. The one I want to follow.

He didn't care how he was going to do this or why, but the feeling inside him became so overwhelming that he was paralyzed.

"Looks like it's your lucky day," said a voice from nearby. It was a drow lady. "He seems interested in purchasing you."

"..." This caused his thoughts to drop. His lips parted slightly, and his jaw might have hit the ground in a wide open fashion had he not been so well trained in etiquette. What… did she say? What the hell did she just fucking say…?!

The icy, commanding tone of a drow woman rang out just then. "However, you have caused me to have to speak, so you must be punished. Kneel."

He dropped to his knees automatically, almost much too readily. But at this point, he was numb with surprise, confusion, and bewilderment. All he could think of, was what he just heard, like the sound of bells, ringing through his mindset as he held his hands up, clasped in a desperate prayer motion. Could this be true.. Is this really true?

"Slave. Tell me which is your working hand?"

He wondered then, when he spoke, just how hoarse he was sounding, and steadied himself to form a more even tone. "My right.."

"Then we will take his left."

He paled considerably. It was true that Loviataran's worshipped pain, but he himself wasn't sure just how much pain he could take, in regards to losing a limb. They want me to run.. His eyes darted left and right, as if looking for the nearest way of escape. But if I run, I will be killed.. And then I won't find out…

A goblin started to walk towards him, raising a dagger-like object in his hand, and for a moment, panic started to set in, and he noticed the looming shadow over him, growing smaller as he got closer. They will not stop me.. He decided. No one must stop me!

Blinding pain then seared up from his left wrist, striking through his body in a way that caused him to collapse in his posture. He had most likely screamed at some point, and it happened so quickly that the shock of losing a hand and the bloodloss instantly knocked him out. The pain had caused him to snap inwardly, his mind thrown into such turmoil and helplessness that until his very consciousness was gone, he had wanted to die then and there just to end the searing agony. He was soon forced in to a space in his mind, in those last moments.. a feeble voice in the back his thoughts whispering out.

Vance Gravelle.. I want him.